


save the last dance

by canticle



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, I'm Serious, M/M, Post-Canon, Spoilers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, prom for dummies, this is the fluffiest thing i've ever goddamn written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 09:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15360954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canticle/pseuds/canticle
Summary: When Akira comes back over, there’s a look in his eyes Ryuji’s not sure he likes. “What’re you up to,” he says warily, even as Akira’s fingers slip into his own, even as Akira’s arm wraps around his waist, even as a song he’s never heard before blares out bright and loud to the clear consternation of the teachers hovering along the walls.“You know the steps,” Akira says, answering nothing and grinning all the wider. “Just follow my lead.”





	save the last dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lod/gifts).



> dear lody: your generosity in a tough time was and still is a gesture that brings the warmest of fuzzies to my cold dead gay heart, and i'm so grateful that we're friends <3 i demand that we stay friends until eurotrip 20XX so that i can make you take me to that japanese place you keep posting pictures of food from, bc i swear to god if i could reach through the screen and grab some for myself you'd be mysteriously missing portions from your bowls like....all the time....
> 
> xoxo, canticle <3
> 
> ([for proper mood setting pls listen to this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LAjfB0XfjkA))

The folded paper flyer crinkles a little more beneath Ryuji’s fingers where he’s worrying it down to something soft as tissue paper. He knows what it says, has the words and the date branded on the inside of his eyelids; he has since the posters went up a few months ago in the hallways and on the bulletin boards. _First Annual Shujin Masquerade Ball_ , suggested by the student body and implemented by the Council as a way to bring the school together over the weirdness of the last year.

As a third year student, Ryuji knows far more of the ins and outs than he wants to— their entire year is in charge of decorating for it, and Ann’s been bemoaning the complications for weeks. From catering the food to curating what music will be allowed and getting it cleared both with the Council and the administration...it’s a headache far beyond anything Ryuji’s willing to consider.

He’s just there to be a body, to lift boxes and climb ladders and put things where people smarter than he tell him to go, and maybe, when everything is quiet, to stare at the floor of the gym and fantasize a bit.

Masquerade balls are dances, after all. Dances need guests. Ryuji needs a plus one— well. Doesn’t _need_ one.

But any excuse he can use to get Akira back to Tokyo, even for a day or two, is an excuse he jumps on immediately and viciously.

He folds the flyer again, soft and worn enough that it barely makes a sound. It’s enough that Ann, leaning against the wall next to him as they wait for the train, smacks the back of his knuckles. “Knock it off, Ryuji! Just put the paper down, will you? You’re driving me crazy.”

“Sorry.” He’s not really sorry, but he does fold the paper and stick it into the pocket of his hoodie. Even deep inside the subway terminal it’s a little chilly, the December air leaking in from above, pooling down the stairs and spreading wherever it goes. “‘M just fidgety today.”

“It’s a big day,” Ann allows graciously, taking another bite of her crepe. It’s just before lunch, but that’s never stopped Ann from ruining her appetite before. Ryuji can’t even _think_ about food right now without feeling the butterflies ramp up in his stomach. “Are you excited?”

Everyone except Makoto and Haru will be at the dance; Futaba’s dragging Yusuke there by the hair if need be, and they’re all meeting up at Haru’s place after for a Phantom Thief sleepover. It’s been so long since they’ve been able to have the whole group together at once.

_Is_ he excited? To see Akira, sure, but a dance? He’s never danced before. He doesn’t wanna make Akira look stupid, either. What if he has two left feet? What if he trips and falls on himself?

The dance is still almost eight hours away, and he’s already ready to leave.

Plus… He’s been banned from his own boyfriend until he _gets_ there.

“I just don’t understand why I can’t go with everyone to pick him up,” Ryuji definitely doesn’t whine— he’s almost an adult, goddamnit, he wants to go pick up his own goddamn boyfriend from the goddamn train station. “Why do you all get to hog all the Akira time? I don’t wanna go to your place and play dress-up, I wanna—”

Ann rests her elbow a little harder on top of his head until he grunts. “You’re literally getting him all day Sunday, I don’t wanna hear it. I won’t get to see him till then either, Ryuji, stop complaining.”

“Still!”

“You’ll see him in less than six hours. Don’t be pathetic.”

“ ‘M not bein’ pathetic. I just miss him.” Shit, he does sound kinda pathetic at that, but it’s _true._ He misses Akira _so much,_ and it’s _not fair_ that Futaba and Haru and Yusuke and Makoto get to steal him before Ryuji even gets to kiss him on his stupid, dumb, pretty face!

Ann’s arm drops down around his shoulder and pulls him close a moment later, the knuckles of her free hand mussing his hair in a gentle, forced noogie. “You’re such a baby. _Trust me._ You won’t regret it.”

 

And...honestly, watching Akira step out of Haru’s fancy black car in front of Shujin’s gate, he really, _really_ doesn’t.

Has he always been so...broad in the shoulders? His striped vest tucks in at his waist, makes him look like someone who just stepped off a runway, and the suit jacket casually slung over his shoulder just adds to the illusion. His hair’s slicked back— shit, he can see almost all of Akira’s forehead, what the _hell,_ why is that so _hot_ — and the flash of red at the bottoms of his slick black boots gives him this air of danger that has Ryuji wanting to loosen his collar.

God _damn._ How has he gotten even _hotter_ since Ryuji last saw him? He can’t help but stare, can’t help but gorge himself on the sight of his best friend, his favorite person, dapper and dashing and—

And darting over his way, and getting all up in Ryuji’s business before he has a chance to react, cool hands around his neck and warm lips on his face, and by the time Ryuji’s managed to start his brain back up Akira’s already pulled away, smiling warm and smug and so, _so_ happy.

“Hey there, hot stuff,” he says, and the way he looks at Ryuji makes his knees weak. “What’s a bad boy like you doin’ at a fancy shindig like this?”

“Oh, y’know,” Ryuji says, breathless with a joy he can’t even begin to express, “waitin’ around for another bad boy to show up.”

Akira cocks an eyebrow and tilts his head, lets his grin slip into something more sly. “Any bad boy?”

“Nah.” He slips his fingers into Akira’s belt loops, tugs him just a bit closer, till Akira’s face, his stupid beautiful face and his stupid beautiful eyes are all he can see. “Just one in particular. You know any guys like that?”

“Mmm. For you?” One hand curls around Ryuji’s tie, and only now does he register that Akira’s wearing gloves, red as blood, soft as sin. “I could be as bad as you want me to be.”

_Shit,_ Ryuji’s grinning so hard that his cheeks hurt, so hard that he can hardly think straight, even through the blush riding high and hot on his face. He puts a hand to Akira’s cheek, and Akira immediately nuzzles into it, his eyes locked on Ryuji’s the whole time.

Before Ryuji can act on any of the seventeen different things he wants to do, the car horn honks twice, short and sharp. “Ryuji-kun! Akira-kun!” Haru calls from the backseat, hanging half out the window. “Don’t forget these!”

She waves two small flat packages at them, and as much as Ryuji wants to keep standing here with Akira he also knows that ignoring Haru is courting death. Akira pecks him on the cheek again when he lets go, trotting back over to retrieve the goods.

Haru bends close to him; Ryuji can’t tell what she says, but it makes Akira laugh, even as she kisses his cheek and settles back into the seat. “Have fun, you two~!” she trills. “I’ll see you later tonight!”

“You’d best have the good snacks!” Ryuji calls back, just to see her laugh. Then Akira takes his hand and all his attention snaps back like a rubber band. “You look...really good, man,” he tells him earnestly. “‘S this why the girls had you all afternoon?”

Akira shrugs a little, just a hint of that sly grin coming back. “That and other reasons.” He hands Ryuji one of the packages. “You always go to a masquerade without a mask?”

Any reply Ryuji can make dies in his throat when he pulls the thin silvery mask out of its covering.

It’s not….it’s not the same. It’s smaller— leaves more of his forehead open, the teeth smaller, the brow shallower, less fearsome, less _his._ It stays on with an elastic strap instead of some bullshit Metaverse magic. But at the same time it _is_ his, the mask that has his soul stamped all over it, a mask he never thought he’d see again in his life. He rubs his thumb across one of the canines in quiet awe.

“Thank Yusuke when we get inside,” Akira says beside him, quiet, the barest hint of emotion in his voice. “And Haru when we get back tonight. If it wasn’t for the two of them…”

Ryuji looks over just in time to see Akira snap his own mask onto his face. It takes his breath away— the proportions of Akira’s mask are better, almost identical to the original version. He’s still for a moment.

Then he smiles.

It’s like a punch to the gut, a bat to the knee, an attack from a Shadow that leaves Ryuji weak and dizzy and breathless. It’s Joker, but it’s not; the clothes are wrong, the mask is wrong, the setting is wrong, but the way Akira adjusts himself, slides his hands into his pockets, cocks his head and stares up at the sky like he’s calculating the right way to launch himself into it and bring it down on top of everyone’s heads— that’s all Joker.

That’s something he hasn’t seen in— hell. Longer than he’d had the chance to see it, at this point. Something precious, something that he didn’t realize he was starting to forget before it appeared in front of him again.

The Metaverse isn’t something they’re ever gonna get back. He’s never gonna get to be Skull again, never gonna get to see Akira be Joker, _really_ be Joker, with daggers and magic and mayhem at their fingertips. Knifing someone here doesn’t make them dissolve into shadows, it just makes them dead.

But...maybe for tonight, maybe just once, one last time….he can pretend.

Ryuji takes a deep breath and pulls his own mask onto his face.

“Alright, Skull,” Akira says, watching him with those gorgeous, dumb, beautiful eyes of his. “You ready?”

“Hell yeah, man,” Ryuji breathes, and smiles in a way he hasn’t in almost a year. “Let’s do this shit.”

 

Goddamn, though, Akira _loves_ to dance.

He has Ryuji out on the floor within five minutes, tugging him along despite all complaints and protests. “You don’t need to know how,” he coaxes, his hands on Ryuji’s waist, Ryuji’s on his shoulders, “just follow my lead. I can teach you.”

“You gonna teach me in five minutes?” Ryuji squints at him, still a little panicked, a little discomfited by Akira’s wide grin.

“I’ll teach you all you need to know for tonight. Just follow my lead, okay?”

Ryuji does.

It’s easier than he’d thought, and harder than he’d hoped. All he has to do is follow Akira’s movements— go backwards when he moves forwards, forwards when he steps back, move to either side at a slight pressure from Akira’s hand— and after a song or two he relaxes, the tension in his shoulders ratcheting down. “See?” Akira tells him, twisting his head to kiss Ryuji’s knuckles. “You’re doing great.”

 

Panther— _Ann—_ looks stunning, of course, dressed in something red and flowy to compliment the darker tones of Shiho on her arm. Akira exchanges high-fives with both of them, bowing low over Shiho’s hand in a gesture that makes her laugh, something bright and vivacious that tugs at Ryuji’s heartstrings. He’s so glad that they have each other, stuck over in Inaba for the rest of their schooling, able to keep each other occupied with the most stupid stunts they can think of.

It’s almost enough to make him jealous, watching Akira coax Shiho out onto the dance floor and start doing the dumbest little two-step, Akira achingly solicitous until Shiho gets her bearings and starts swinging _him_ around. They’re laughing, familiar together, and he doesn’t realize he’s staring a little _too_ hard until Ann elbows him in the ribs.

Her mask is just as accurate as his own, the elastic strap all but disappearing into her updo. She looks like a cross between herself and her other self, half Ann, half Panther, half Carmen, all fiery and fierce. “If you wanna go dance again,” she says, longsuffering and fond, “why don’t you just _ask?”_

Ryuji gestures with the tiny plate of snack foods he’s holding in one hand and the drink he has in the other. “I’m busy.”

“Stuffing your face?”

“No, holding it for Yusuke. He went to go grab his sketchbook.” Still, those tiny little sandwiches do look tasty, and he’s about to try going for one with his teeth before Yusuke shows up at his shoulder like a ghost.

This last year’s been good to him; he’s less angular under Haru’s doting patronage, filling out into something solid and healthy with steady access to meals. His mask is shoved up into his hair so he can eat, an issue Ryuji’s glad he doesn’t have to deal with, and it shows the same level of care that everyone else’s does. “You have my gratitude,” he says as he takes the plate back from Ryuji.

“‘S no problem, man,” Ryuji shrugs. He doesn’t really have an excuse now, but Akira’s got Futaba by both hands and is spinning her around in circles, and there’s no way he’d cut in on that, not with the way Futaba’s laughing. “Hey, thanks. For—” he thumbs the side of his mask. Its weight is so comforting, in a way he hadn’t known he’d missed until now.

“It was my pleasure,” Yusuke tells him with that little smile that means he’s super happy. “One last hurrah for the Phantom Thieves?”

“Yeah.” He squints— he’s lost track of Akira somewhere in the crowd. No, wait, there he is, over by the sound system with Futaba. She’s hunched head and shoulders over the nearest speaker, while Akira holds a tablet (where did they get that? Why did they smuggle it in?). “Do you...know what they’re up to?”

“I do,” Yusuke says. And doesn’t say anything else, not even when Ryuji side-eyes him.

“You gonna tell me?” he finally asks.

“I believe you will be finding out momentarily yourself. Why would I ruin the surprise?”

Now that’s an ominous statement if he’s ever heard one. Ryuji’s immediately on guard, especially when he sees Futaba and Akira high-five each other. When Akira comes back over, there’s a look in his eyes Ryuji’s not sure he likes. “What’re you up to,” he says warily, even as Akira’s fingers slip into his own, even as Akira’s arm wraps around his waist, even as a song he’s never heard before blares out bright and loud to the clear consternation of the teachers hovering along the walls.

“You know the steps,” Akira says, answering nothing and grinning all the wider. “Just follow my lead.”

And as the lyrics kick in, he opens his goddamn mouth.

_“You can dance,_ ” he sings— in _English,_ Ryuji can’t understand a goddamn word of what he’s saying, but the way it comes out of his mouth sends him bolt upright like a steel spike’s been driven down his spine. _“Every dance with the guy who gives you the eye, let him hold you tight—”_

“Akira what the fu _uu—?!”_ Ryuji squeaks, but by then they’re moving across the suddenly cleared floor in wide, deliberate steps, more focused and practiced than anything they’ve done that night.

But they _are_ the same steps. Akira flourishes more, twists and slinks and sways, but Ryuji’s always had a good sense of rhythm, and the core never changes.

_“You can smile,”_ Akira continues, _“every smile for the man who held your hand ‘eath the pale moonlight—”_ like he’s not in the middle of their whole goddamn year in the middle of the goddamn dance floor, spinning Ryuji around like he’s a goddamn puppet on a string. Fuck, he’ll dance to Akira’s tune anytime, only— he’s beet red, he can feel every pound of his heart in his throat, because Akira’s looking at him like he’s the only person in the room, like whatever this is is something meaningful, something _important._

Ryuji swallows and steps into him when Akira tugs.

_“But don’t forget who’s taking you home, and in whose arms you’re gonna be—”_ The way he moves his hips has gotta be illegal, there’s no way a dude should be able to shimmy like that, and Ryuji doesn’t even try. _“So darling— save the last dance for me.”_

Akira’s fingers slide under his chin, tilt his head up just enough to make sure he’s watching. Of course he’s watching. Ryuji wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off of him in this moment if there was a Shadow about to beat his brains out.

Faster now— he twists Ryuji up and under his arm, spins him out to the end of his grasp like a tether and then pulls him back in, and Ryuji’s helpless to do anything but follow. _“Oh, I know that the music’s fine like sparkling wine, go and have your fun—”_

“Is this _really_ necessary,” Ryuji mutters as Akira comes face to face with him again. All he gets is a wink, and then Akira’s twirling him again.

_“Laugh and sing, but while we’re apart don’t give your heart to anyone…”_ Dumbass extra pretty-boy, making a spectacle in front of all their whooping classmates, all the baffled teachers— hell, he can even hear Futaba cackling from on top of the speakers. _“And don’t forget who’s taking you home, and in whose arms you’re gonna be! Save the last dance for me.”_

This time when Akira swings him back Ryuji ends up tucked against his chest, their arms crossed over Ryuji’s stomach as they step-and-sway like a couple of school kids at their first dance. His chin ends up hooked over Ryuji’s shoulder, his lips barely brushing Ryuji’s ear. _“Baby, don’t you know I love you so?”_

Ryuji _yelps._ Holy shit he _knows_ one of those words, was— is that—

_“Can you feel it when we touch?”_ If his face wasn’t already on fire, this  would be the thing that sets him burning. Akira’s face is so close, close enough that the edge of his mask digs into the side of his ear, close enough that his lips almost brush the side of his neck with every word. _“I will never ever let you go— I love you oh so much.”_

That word _again!_ If he wasn’t so flustered Ryuji could reach for it in his memory, try to shuffle around his minimal English vocabulary, try to match up the sounds— but Akira’s _teeth_ meet his _ear_ and it’s all he can do to stay on his feet as he spins Ryuji out again. “You’re such an _ass,_ ” he hisses under the swell of the music.

Akira laughs in his face.

Up and down the floor, the music loud enough to vibrate in his bones— _“You can dance, go and carry on till the night is gone and it's time to go—”_ Akira’s voice dark and smooth like drinking the best hot chocolate he’s ever had, like sitting in a warm bathtub with the shower running over his head— _“If he asks if you're all alone, can he walk you home, you must tell him no—”_ like a hug that gives him goosebumps. There’s other people on the floor but Akira skirts them easily around, like the obstacles are _nothing,_ like they’re the only real people in the room.

_“And don’t forget who’s taking you home, and in whose arms you’re gonna be,”_ Akira sings, and twirls him _again._ This time Ryuji anticipates it, manages to spin himself back into Akira’s arms and is rewarded with a bright flash of teeth. _“Save the last dance for me._ ”

“What even are you _doing,_ ” Ryuji mumbles fondly. Akira takes hold of his hip, coaxes Ryuji’s arms around his neck, and steps into him, pushing him back a step. The way he _moves—_ how do his bones even let him do that?!

A step back, and then forward; shimmy to the side, to the other side—” _Oh I know that the music’s fine like sparklin' wine, go and have your fun—”_ ; the same pattern, the same routine, Akira’s voice in his ear, his hands on Ryuji’s shoulders, his waist, guiding him in gentle touches, playing him like a fiddle. _“Laugh and sing, but while we’re apart don’t give your heart to anyone, and don’t forget who’s taking you home—”_ His hands tighten on Ryuji’s, fingers slipping between Ryuji’s own as they sway, _“and in whose arms you’re gonna be— darling, save the last dance for me.”_

And then he shoves his mask up his nose and grins wildly, a look that strikes exhilarated fear into Ryuji’s heart.

For good reason, because the next time Akira spins him out and back, he gives Ryuji a little nudge too far. “So don’t forget who’s taking you hooome—” he belts, this time in _Japanese,_ and Ryuji squawks as he loses his balance, ending up barely balancing on one leg, draping backwards over Akira’s arm, and Akira fucking _dips_ him. “And in whose arms you’re gonna be!”

“You— what are you doing?!” Ryuji squawks, grabbing onto Akira’s jacket with both hands. “Don’t drop me!!”

“So, darling,” Akira murmurs, slipping the tips of his fingers underneath Ryuji’s mask to push it up into his hair, then doing the same to his own, “save the last dance for me.”

And he dips Ryuji almost all the way backwards as their lips meet.

There’s shrieking. There’s hollering. Somewhere behind him Ryuji can barely make out Futaba screaming “ _Akira, gross!!! Don’t bring PDA into your dumb grand romantic gesture!!!”_

He doesn’t care. He’s way too preoccupied with curling his fingers into Akira’s collar and his hair, too busy with Akira’s tongue in his mouth, too busy _keeping him there._

He’s scarlet from the roots of his hair to way below his suit collar when Akira finally pulls away, beaming at him. “Well?”

Ryuji can barely think, bent over so far all the blood’s pooling into his brain. “W-well what?”

“What do you think about dancing now?” God, why is smug such a good look on him? He doesn’t wanna indulge it, but after all that— shit, Akira _deserves_ a little indulging.

“I think….that if you don’t pick me up, we’re both gonna fall over,” Ryuji breathes.

Akira’s face falls into a pout. “That’s it?”

And then his dumb fancy boot loses its grip on the slick gymnasium floor and sends them both sprawling to the ground.

He’d be embarrassed, but he’s too busy laughing so hard he cries— the shocked expression on Akira’s face as they fell is going to stay with him for a long, long time.

The rest of the night will forever be a blur to him— a mishmash of making fun of Ann with Shiho, making fun of Shiho with Ann, doing the robot with Futaba in the corner of the room while Yusuke alternately tries and fails to sketch them and complains about how unaesthetic their movements are.

— Stolen kisses by the buffet table, by the speakers, outside of the bathrooms when they go to freshen up; Akira dragging him down by his tie, layering kisses over his nose and cheeks and laughing when Ryuji goes beet red again.

— Cheering Ann on as she twirls on the dance floor, her skirts flaring out around her ankles, Shiho twirling her round and round till she’s laughing and breathless.

— Sneakily packing up like sixteen of those little shrimp canapes in several napkins for Yusuke to smuggle back to the dorms— some habits die hard.

— And always, always Akira at his side every time he turns, ready to swing him out onto the dance floor again at a moment’s notice.

He’s exhausted by the time they finally stagger out, Akira’s head a heavy weight on his shoulder, Ann tucked up warm against his other side, Shiho under _her_ arm; a Phantom Thief huddle puddle as Yusuke and Futaba bicker cheerfully about nothing at all. It’s familiar and comforting, a feeling that stays with him as they spread futons all over Haru’s living room floor, as Akira drops himself into his lap with a bowl of popcorn that he shamelessly stole from Makoto, as the room fills all around him with warm conversation and bright laughter.

It’s overwhelming. Ryuji doesn’t know if he’s ever been this openly happy in his life. He buries his head into the crook of Akira’s neck, nudging in further when Akira reaches up to card his fingers through his hair. “You alright?” he says, low and warm.

Ryuji picks his head up just enough to peck him on the cheek. “You’re such a sap, y’know that?”

“Takes one to know one.” Akira’s eyes crinkle up at the corners, just enough for Ryuji to know that he’s smiling, and his voice turns lilting and melodic. _“Baby, don’t you know I love you so?”_

“Save the flirting for tomorrow,” Makoto says without looking away from the screen. Ryuji ignores Akira’s snickers to pull him closer.

“You’re gonna tell me what you were sayin’, right?” he mumbles. “I thought I might know some of the words, but…” Akira slips a hand into Ryuji’s, lacing their fingers together and cutting him off.

“I told you the most important ones.” He kisses Ryuji’s knuckles, one by one, laughing softly at Ryuji’s strangled scandalized noise. “ _I love you oh so much.”_

Ryuji supposes he’ll have to be satisfied with that for now.


End file.
